A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

“Are you embarrassed by me, Faerin of Forhd?” she asked plainly.

I was taken aback. “No, no, not at all.”

“I’m not embarrassed by you,” she said, then took my hand in her own. “I care for you, much more than just a friend.”

I paused at the admission. And I was the nervous fool? How long had she felt this way, and I had stalled for fear of rejection? How much did I play at running my ten and getting stars on my collar to be worth her affection? The stars might have given me a window, an opportune moment to celebrate, but in truth, they gave me nothing I didn’t already have, save confidence.

“But, I’m no whore!” she said sharply. “Of course, you owed me a ring, you barbarian.”

I loved this woman. I was as sure of it then as I was sure there was air in my lungs and blood in my veins.

“But we will need to make this official and proper. You will need to meet my father, properly this time. I will have to think of the best way to, and you will need to stop buying from me here. I can’t risk the…”

I placed my hand on the back of her neck and pulled her close. I kissed her softly, and I felt her body shudder with appreciation.

“What was that for?” she asked.

There were a thousand reasons I could have given for tasting her lips. “Sometimes, you talk too much.”

Chapter One and Five

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

“You have been buried, lost for an entire age,” I said.

The sword remained silent.

I circled the anvil and the broken truesilver blade resting upon it. I breathed it in, noting its shape, its curves. I ran a finger along the flat of the blade, warning it of my touch. It had been neglected; it had been forgotten; it had become untrusting.

“You have been broken,” I continued.

The sword remained silent.

“Sword singing is an art,” Ada Cole told me long ago. “There is more than one way to paint a canvas. Your instincts will guide you, trust in them; they know the way.”

I watched him perform his dance many times. I repeated his steps today as if he had left shoe prints on the ash-covered floor. I soothed, I calmed. I felt as foolish now as I had then. I turned back to the broken sword.

A flash of light creaked through the floorboards above, followed by a cascade of thunder.

I made several sketches when I got back to the shop, variations to the handle, the hilt, design of the pommel stone, and the like. It was not enough to just forge a new handle and be done with her. The form was as important as the function for a blade as elegant as this. After a considerable amount of thought and ale, I settled on a traditional approach, something worthy of the sword’s lineage. It would be a true Northern tall sword, a hand and a half sword. Bastard swords the Cyllians called them. I thought the name appropriate.

It took me three days to prepare. Two gathering the supplies I needed from various vendors: ore, flux, solvents. And one spent awaiting more cooperative weather. My measurements were complete, and I had already made the first cuts on the silver ingot I would use to craft the hilt.

Light flashed, and thunder boomed overhead. Now was the time, but I hesitated.

I worked the bellows until the forge hissed against the sound of falling rain. The act of repairing the handle was simple enough in theory. I would heat the broken end of truesilver and the silver ingot separately then work the pieces flat upon each other until the metals bonded and became one. Simple was perhaps an understatement. It would be tiring and tedious work: heat, hammer, rest, repeat.

The monotony of the work was not the cause of my hesitation. Over the years, I read many stories concerning truesilver blades, tales of Old Illyria, of sword singers and heroes. It was impossible to separate myth from truth. The swords were said to be a gift from the gods, a blessing to honor man’s bravery against the evil gods of old. The nature of their craft was a mystery; the workings of an ancient weave lost long ago. The swords were allegedly lighter than air, harder than iron, and immune to the ravages of time. I didn’t know what to believe, but the stories all shared one particular note in common—fire was their undoing.

I witnessed a lot during my time in the South. Following the occupation, thousands of soldiers returned home with trinkets and artifacts looted from Rukland. Most were kept as souvenirs or sold to collectors and museums. The truesilver blades were much more important. They were rounded up by the sigil guard and sent to the Imperial Alchemical College for study. The Cyllians worked for years to unravel the secrets of truesilver, but their efforts to reproduce the alloy were unsuccessful. In the end, every sword in their possession was destroyed. Destroyed is perhaps the wrong word. They remained as swords, but whatever weave that made them true was lost.

I don’t know what steps they took, but if I wanted to spare my sword a similar fate, avoiding the forge seemed like a logical step. Only it was something I couldn’t avoid. I could cleanse the blade of its tarnish without the forge, sharpening a new edge needed oil, a grinding wheel, and time. Repairing the hilt and handle, however, would need fire, and lots of it.

“Recall the hands of your maker. Remember the fire,” I continued. “You shall feel that fire once more, but do not be troubled. Their hands are my own, and their roots run through me.”

The sword remained silent.

This was a beautiful lie. I had no way of knowing what my heritage was outside of the obvious color of my eyes. But I did not speak it